I've been meaning to chat you up all week about my New York trip. I have SO MUCH to say, but for some reason it's this morning's run that finally has me pulling up a chair to our table. You don't mind that I put on my Lush Mask of Magnaminty for our little tete-a- tete, do you? You're a doll. Anyway, six miles on a chilly Sunday morning, what's so special about that? I can almost hear you asking. Well, add about three inches of snow to that picture, with more coming down, and you get a better feeling for why I'm basking in the afterglow of giddy. Exhilarating!
I admit that after dressing for the run, always a delicate balance between form and function (while one likes to have the proper mix of wicking and wind protection, one also likes to look pretty), I was a bit nonplussed to find that the snow was a good bit deeper than I'd anticipated. My thoughts turned to cold ankles and the sore muscles I'd get from all the slipping and sliding, but I forged on, rationalizing that I could always turn back. So glad I didn't. The path was untracked but for me and the birds and the bunnies, y'all. I'll forgive you if you pictured me in Snow White garb for a second. I did. It was cold and blustery, but it was also gorgeous and serene as I tramped along in the insulating quiet of the snow. As I said, exhilarating. If you want some idea, let your big dog out in the snow and watch.
I did the whole run, about six miles, and I think part of the pleasure was just that. I can. It's cold, the footing is slippery, I'm 41 years old, and I can knock out six miles with my heart soaring more than pounding. OK. You can smack the wholesomeness out of me now.